


Episode of Hands

by greenjimkirk



Series: Space Husbands Ficlets [2]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Hurt Spock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Spock, i actually made myself blush while writing this, nsfv, this basically just turns into hand porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 02:32:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9637049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenjimkirk/pseuds/greenjimkirk
Summary: Spock cuts his hand. Hot Vulcan kisses ensue.I stole the title and basic premise from the Hart Crane poem.





	

There was a hand in the darkness, illuminated by the sparks of phaser fire, and it was reaching towards him.

“You’re bleeding, Spock. Let me see.”

Spock had not noticed the gash in his own hand until that moment. It was not deep, and he told the captain so: “It is not deep.”

The captain smiled, though Spock did not know what there was for him to smile about. They were currently huddled behind two large rocks in an attempt to avoid enemy phaser fire. The sun of this alien planet had set 45 minutes and 32 seconds ago, forcing them to rely on the light of the crescent moon above them and the orange and yellow flashes that constantly threatened to strike them. Such a flash appeared now, sending a cascade of dust and gravel onto them and illuminating Jim’s face. “Let me see, please.”

Spock extended his hand.

_Blushing._ A physical expression of errant emotions that Spock unfortunately had no control over. He could control his breaths, his mind, his heart rate, but he could do nothing about the unbidden rush of blood. It was, Spock knew, vestigial evidence of the headier days on Vulcan, when emotions ran hot and heavy and hard. Something akin to the human appendix; though it had once served a purpose, evolution had rendered it useless. But a blush could be far more compromising than any case of appendicitis.

If the captain noticed the green flush spreading across Spock’s face, he did not say anything. Perhaps he could not see it in the dark. Or perhaps he did not understand the significance of his request.

Gently, Jim took his hand. The injury looked far worse than it was. Green dripped from the gash in his palm, down the length of his fingers, and onto the red sand below.

Despite the stress of being under attack for an extended length of time, Spock’s mental shields were holding. He did not allow the captain’s thoughts to enter his mind, though he could feel something, more of a hum than an emotion. And a heat.

Another blast of phaser fire. Another flash of gold.

Jim’s grip tightened slightly. Spock inhaled, but he did not allow it to become the sharp intake of breath it might have been.

“Does it hurt?”

“Negative, Captain.”

Jim smiled again, and Spock again wondered why. Probably, it was the formality of Spock’s speech that amused him.

“I can’t clean it now, but I can stop the bleeding.” His hand withdrew, and the hum and the heat were gone.

Spock had not realized until now how cold the alien night was. He watched as the captain tore a strip off his tunic, his hands speckled with green.

“That is unnecessary. It is not serious, merely an incon –” His words were cut short as Jim again grasped his hand. He was not as prepared this time for the touch, and he could not prevent the flash of emotion, just as bright as the phaser fire above, that crashed into him.

_Affection_ , _amusement_ , _heat_. They were strung together, dripping and molten, and Spock nearly gasped. Involuntarily, his grip tightened around Jim’s.

He did not look into the captain’s eyes; he knew all too well that the blood was again rushing to his face. Instead, he looked at Jim’s hands. They were wide and deep, and Spock could feel the pulse of blood beneath them. Blue veins ran over his knuckles and the indentations of bone, standing out like a sculptural relief. Spock watched as Jim’s fingers – which knew a grip for star charts and flowers, as well as knives and phasers – dusted along his palm, as if tracing the lines there.

The attack above them was escalating, the light growing brighter, but Spock paid it no mind.

He looked at his own hand, at his own fingers, spindly and long and still dripping with green. They were unaccustomed to touch. They knew tricorders and microscopes and the burning sands of Vulcan; they did not know the heat of proximity.

As the cloth tightened around his hand, Spock knew suddenly – he could not be sure if it was the touch telepathy or merely a moment of clarity – that Jim understood the significance of his actions, that he knew the Vulcan meaning of hands and fingers and palms pressed together.

The hairs on Jim’s hands stood out in the cold night air, searching for heat on this hostile planet. Timidly, Spock raised his other hand. He could not provide the same heat Jim did, but he could offer his touch all the same.

The sky above them exploded in gold. Sparks fell from above like dust from a rocket ship, illuminating their faces as Spock looked into Jim’s eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I always appreciate feedback. You can also hit me up at @greenjimkirk on Tumblr.


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